G005 


NEW  POEMS 


STEPHEN  COLERIDGE 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


NEW  POEMS 


NEW  POEMS 


BY 

STEPHEN  COLERIDGE 

Author  of  Songs  of  Desideria,  Gloria, 
The  Sanctity  of  Confession 


THE   TORCH    PRESS 
CEDAR  RAPIDS,  IOWA 

1911 


v 


COPYRIGHT    1911    HY 
T1IK    TORCH    PRESS 


CEDAR   RAPIDS.    IOWA 


C 


TO      ONE      WHO      SUFFERED 
MUCH  AND  NOW  IS  AT  REST 


868755 


PREFACE 

I  do  not  know  whether  any  explanation  is  needed 
of  the  appearance  of  these  few  verses  first  in  America. 

Those  of  us  in  England  who  have  crossed  and  re- 
crossed  that  vast  waste  of  water,  and  have  come  to 
count  among  our  friends  so  many  thus  poignantly 
separated  from  us,  feel  strangely  and  intimately  the 
essential  community  that  lies  below  so  much  super- 
ficial difference. 

It  may  divert  a  youthful  and  irreverent  press  to 
play  fantastic  tricks  before  high  heaven  with  the 
spelling  of  our  august  and  glorious  speech,  but  the 
consecrated  phrases  that  well  up  from  the  beating 
heart  of  our  race  telling  of  freedom,  honour,  love, 
mercy,  and  peace  appeal  instantly  to  something  com- 
mon to  us  all. 

When  I  was  last  in  Pennsylvania  it  pleased  Mr. 
Luther  A.  Brewer,  the  President  of  The  Torch  Press, 
to  pay  me  the  graceful  compliment  of  printing  in  a 
lovely  type,  set  in  a  perfect  page,  a  lecture  on  poetry 
which  I  had  the  pleasure  of  delivering  at  Haverford 
College;  the  beauty  of  the  handiwork  of  The  Torch 
Press  having  thus  suddenly  to  me  been  revealed,  there 
can  be  no  ground  for  surprise  that  when  I  received 

7 


an  offer  from  Mr.  Brewer  to  publish  my  forthcoming 
new  volume  of  verse,  I  accepted  it  with  proper  appre- 
ciation. 

What  I  have  written  may  be  of  no  value,  but  I  have 
been  permitted  by  The  Torch  Press  to  present  it  to 
the  world  in  faultless  attire. 

STEPHEN  COLERIDGE 


CONTENTS 

ULTIMA  REQUIES 11 

OUTWARD  BOUND 12 

HOMEWARD  BOUND 13 

LINES  ON  A  FLY  LEAF 14 

AMOR  TRIUMPHANS 15 

A  FAREWELL 16 

SCHEHALLION 17 

To   GLORIA 18 

THE  MOON 19 

LAUS  AMORI 20 

APRIL 21 

THE  SUNDIAL 22 

SONG 23 

To  THOSE  AT  HOME 24 

GOOD  INTENTIONS 25 

SONG 26 

THE  PICTURE 27 

THE  EMPTY  HOUSE 28 

MARY  MORGAN 29 

AFTER  THE  '45  .  33 


ULTIMA  REQUIES 

Just  a  few  hopes,  just  a  few  sighs, 
Just  a  few  visions  of  delight; 
Just  a  few  dreams  of  Paradise, 
And  kisses  in  the  night. 

Just  a  few  friends  that  come  and  go ; 
Brief,  eager  youth,  and  briefer  age, 
The  warp  and  woof  of  joy  and  woe, 
And  then  the  closed  page. 

Just  a  few  comrades  in  the  fight 
Shoulder  to  shoulder  in  the  throng, 
Just  a  last  struggle  for  the  right 
In  a  mad  world  full  of  wrong. 

Lord,  grant  me  with  my  latest  breath, 
'Mid  failing  faiths  and  death's  alarms, 
The  still  small  voice,  and  underneath 
The  Everlasting  Arms. 


11 


OUTWARD  BOUND 

Down  the  Sound  to  the  open  sea, 
Fronting  the  southwest  wind, 

With  the  great  Atlantic  rolling  free 
And  our  hearts  left  far  behind; 

Over  the  hills  and  far  away, 

Down  in  a  sunny  dell, 
My  little  sweetheart  sings  all  day 

In  a  garden  I  know  well. 

Infinite  space   'mid  the  stars  above 
And  below,  —  the  infinite  deep, 

Alone  on  the  bridge  I  pray  my  love 
Will  true  and  loyal  keep. 

Though  wild  wastes  of  waters  roll 
Between  my  dear  and  me, 

My  faith  is  surer  than  the  pole, 
And  deeper  than  the  sea ! 


12 


HOMEWARD   BOUND 
I 

I  love  to  hear  the  music 
Of  the  gale  among  the  shrouds, 
And  the  roaring  of  the  billows 
Beneath  the  rugged  clouds, 
And  the  racing  of  the  engine 
As  her  bows  go  out  of  sight, 
And  the  wailing  of  the  eight  bells 
Upon  the  wild  midnight! 

II 

And  down  across  the  tropics 
Where  the  sea's  as  smooth  as  glass 
I  love  to  watch  the  shimmer 
On  the  flying  fish  that  pass, 
And  o'er  the  starlit  waters 
I  gaze  astern  at  night 
At  the  wake  all  phosphorescent 
That  stretches  out  of  sight. 

Ill 

But  when  we're  sailing  homeward 
And  Portland  Bill  is  passed, 
And  slipping  up  the  Solent 
We  make  the  good  ship  fast, 
Then  all  the  boasted  glories 
Of  distant  sea  and  shore 
Serve  but  to  make  me  love  thee, 
Dear  England,  more  and  more. 

13 


LINES  ON  A  FLY  LEAP 

PROM  THE  FRENCH  OP  RONSARD 

When  in  the  far-off  years 

You  dream  by  the  candle  light 

In  the  old  chair  by  the  fire 

Through  the  lonely  winter  night, 

As  you  read  my  verse  you  will  murmur 

"Love  to  youth  belongs, 

And  'twas  once  for  the  love  of  me 

The  poet  sang  his  songs. ' ' 


14 


AMOR  TRIUMPHANS 

Lord  of  my  trembling  heart,  I  yield  to  thee, 

The  fight  is  over,  I  am  spent  and  faint; 

In  vain,  in  vain  I  prayed  not  to  desire 

And  shut  the  door  against  love's  fierce   complaint. 

No  more  can  I  forbid  my  King  his  throne 
Or  save  myself  from  sinking  at  his  feet,  — 
Lift  me  in  thy  strong  arms  and  hold  me  close 
My  Conqueror!     Is  the  surrender  sweet? 


15 


A  FAREWELL 

I'll  ask  no  more,  nay,  for  my  manhood's  sake 
That  which  thou  dost  not  give  I  will  not  need ; 
The  tribute  of  my  pain  thou  shalt  not  take; 
Where  love  is  gone,  'twere  better  to  be  freed. 

Then  let  us  part;  I  will  not  crave  a  kiss 

From  those  dear  lips  where  sweetest  falsehoods  dwell, 

Nor  will  I  stay  to  see  another's  bliss, 

The  world  is  wide  enough  for  me !     Farewell ! 


16 


SCHEHALLION 

In  the  fragrant  strath  I  found  you 
Up  your  native  mountain  hollow 
Where  the  purple  heather  flowered 
by  the  loch. 

There  your  loveliness  possessed  me 
With  a  flood  of  deep  desire 
While  we  climbed  the  hoar  Schehallion 
through  the  dew. 

To  the  west  the  Glencoe  Shepherds 
All  around  the  dreaming  mountains 
Lifted  from  the  world  together 
to  the  skies. 

Perished  now,  those  passionate  visions 
Never  never  more  returning 
Lost  with  that  forgotten  summer 
long  ago. 

Now  the  falling  hours  bring  me 
Vain  regrets  so  sweet  and  bitter 
Like  the  long  roll  of  the  wide  sea 
on  my  soul. 


17 


TO  GLORIA 

Oh !  heart  of  mine !  when  will  you  cease  from  longing  ? 
By  that  road  peace  can  never  come  again ; 
Not  to  achieve  the  deep  desire  is  anguish, 
And  to  achieve  it  equally  is  vain! 

Oh !  dark  blue  eyes !  that  seem  so  true  and  tender, 
This  is  the  fateful  lesson  that  you  teach :  — 
Lift  not  the  hands  to  pluck  the  passion  flowers, 
Heaven  to  be  Heaven  is  ever  out  of  reach. 

Oh !  heart  of  mine !  trust  not  the  sweetest  whispers, 
The  fairest  lips  have  used  them  for  deceit ! 
Set  up  your  altar  beyond  life's  betrayals 
Where  everlasting  Love  has  built  His  seat. 


18 


THE  MOON 

Riding  the  tempest  heedless  of  the  wail 
Of  widowed  woman  on  the  sleet-swept  shore, 
While  the  stark  whirlwind  bends  the  reeling  mast 
And  rends  to  ragged  strips  the  sinking  sail; 
Careering  through  the  cloud  wrack's  deafening  roar,- 
The  rowel  on  the  spur  of  the  ice  blast ! 


19 


LAUS  AMORI 

Love  wisely  if  you  have  the  wit 
Nor  suffer  it  beyond  control, 
Love  as  the  angels  if  you  can 
Let  passion  sanctify  the  soul. 

Love  while  the  blood  throbs  in  the  veins. 
Love  while  the  rosy  lips  are  pure, 
Love  while  the  breath  of  life  is  strong 
While  love's  long  ecstasies  endure. 

Love  in  the  morning's  pageantry, 
In  the  fierce  sun's  creative  light; 
Love  in  the  evening's  yielding  hour, 
And  in  the  sacramental  night. 

Love  while  the  earth  lasts  underneath 
And  the  great  firmament  above. 
Love  to  the  deeps  of  time  and  space, 
For  love  is  God,  if  God  be  love! 


20 


APRIL 

The  life  begins  to  stir 
The  seed  in  the  dark  earth, 
The  twigs  along  the  hedge 
Awake  into  new  birth. 

The  sun-god  climbs  the  sky, 
The  wind  is  in  the  west, 
The  robin  pipes  his  love 
To  sweetheart  on  her  nest. 

Ah!  happy  little  birds 
That  mate  and  kiss  and  part, 
To  you  Spring  never  sings 
Songs  to  a  heavy  heart! 


21 


THE  SUNDIAL 

Old  Sentinel  of  Time 
Grown  grey  among  the  flowers, 
With  patient  steadfastness 
Counting  the  falling  hours. 

The  index  creeps  along 
Through  sleepy  afternoons, 
And  a  pale  record  keeps 
Beneath  red  harvest  moons. 

Soft  whispers  it  has  heard 
Breathed  in  fair  ladies '  ears,  — 
Its  old  face  has  been  wet 
With  lonely  lovers'  tears. 

While  children's  children  come, 
Live,  love,  and  pass  away, 
The  ancient  dial  stands 
Preaching  eternity. 

Type  of  the  great  of  heart 
While  summers  come  and  go, 
Still  faithful  to  the  sun 
Whether  it  shine  or  no. 


22 


SONG 

Ah!  long  beloved  Desideria  mine, 

Shew  me  some  new  sweet  way  to  love  thee  more ; 

The  passion-tossed  delirium  divine ! 

The  ecstasy  that  throbs  at  the  heart's  core! 

Teach  me  the  dream  of  Egypt's  Antony 
That  lost  the  world  for  the  fair  pagan's  charms; 
Give  me  a  draught  from  Venus'  alchemy 
And  the  desired  haven  of  thine  arms. 

Make  what  can  never  die  a  new  delight 
Immortal,  rapturous  for  evermore; 
Unveil  thy  glory  to  my  ravished  sight, 
Of  thine  own  Majesty  serenely  sure. 


23 


TO  THOSE  AT  HOME 

Solitary,  on  the  steep 
Of  this  distant  shore  I  stand, 
And  across  the  heaving  deep 
I  stretch  out  a  loving  hand. 

Trackless  wastes  may  intervene ; 
Touch  and  see  we  cannot  yet; 
Time  and  space  offend  between 
By  the  bonds  of  body  set. 

But  the  mind  no  fetters  knows, 
And  the  heart  is  free  to  roam, 
All  around  the  world  it  goes 
To  the  door  of  its  own  home. 


24 


GOOD   INTENTIONS 

An  evil  proverb  says  that  Hell 
Is  paved  with  good  intentions, 

Such  ancient  lies  can  only  be 
The  Devil's  own  inventions. 

Though  good  intentions  fail  and  fail 

Till  seventy  times  seven, 
God  takes  the  will  for  better  things 

To  pave  the  floor  of  Heaven. 

Those  who  still  try  to  struggle  on 

And  fall,  and  stagger  up, 
Who  sink  with  bleeding  feet,  and  drink 

Remorse's  bitter  cup, 

Who  through  their  prison  bars  can  see 

The  road  they  never  trod, 
Yet  through  their  tears  gaze  up  toward 

The  distant  hills  of  God; 

Oh!  surely  these,  who  to  the  end 
Have  wished  those  heights  to  win, 

Will  reach  the  feet  of  Him  who  still 
Forgives  us  all  our  sin. 


25 


SONG 

Quiet  hours  are  the  best; 
When  the  sun  goes  to  his  rest, 
Comforted  are  mourners'  sighs 
Neath  the  deep  star  spangled  skies. 

Dreaming  there 

Lost  to  care 
Those  that  sleep  need  ne  'er  despair. 

Girls  and  boys  throughout  the  world, 
In  their  downy  couches  curled, 
Soon  forget  their  little  woes 
When  the  nurse  tucks  up  their  toes. 

Dreaming  there 

Lost  to  care 
Those  that  sleep  need  ne  'er  despair. 

Men  and  women  growing  old, 
Peace  of  mind  to  folly  sold, 
Trouble  takes  them  for  her  own 
Till  at  night  they  lay  them  down. 

Dreaming  there 

Lost  to  care 
Those  that  sleep  need  ne  'er  despair. 


26 


THE  PICTURE 

Oh!  that  those  eyes  could  see  me, 
Oh!  that  those  lips  could  speak, 

And  give  me  again 

"What  without  pain 
I  never  more  can  seek. 

There  let  the  dream  of  beauty 
Richly  serenely  still 

In  a  vision  strange 

That  cannot  change 
Its  loveliness  fulfil. 

Now  in  the  hallowed  gloaming 
Fades  the  sweet  face  from  sight. 

But  I  seem  to  hear 

A  foot-fall  near, 
'Twixt  twilight  and  the  night. 

Oh!  that  those  eyes  could  see  me, 
Oh!  that  those  lips  could  speak, 

And  give  me  again 

What  without  pain 
I  never  more  can  seek. 


27 


THE  EMPTY  HOUSE 

Oh  it's  dreary  work  to  start  again  upon  the  daily 

round 

When  no  one  waits  your  footstep  on  the  floor, 
And  the  house  is  dark  and  empty,  when  you  reach 

your  home  at  night, 
And  not  a  word  of  welcome  at  the  door. 

And  it's  lonely  in  the  daytime,  and  it's  lonelier  at 

night, 

When  sinking  ashes  on  the  fender  fall, 
And  while  noises  from  the  street  below  have  slowly 

died  away 
You  sit  for  hours  staring  at  the  wall. 

As  you  touch  the  dear  familiar  things,  and  mark  the 

vacant  chair, 

And  wander  round  the  empty  rooms  alone, 
You  recall  each  tender  memory  with  hopeless  vain 

regrets, 
And  the  sinking  heart  within  you  turns  to  stone. 

And  you  think  of  all  the  loving  things  you  long  so 

much  to  say, — 

You'd  give  the  world  the  past  to  recreate, — 
But  the  door  is  shut  upon  you,  and  across  it  there  is 

writ 
The  saddest  of  all  human  words,  —  "Too  late!" 

28 


MARY  MORGAN 

Among  the  sleepy  hills  of  Radnorshire 

The  pendulum  of  life  for  centuries 

Has  swung  with  the  same  cadence  dreamily ; 

The  little  town  Presteigne  lies  nestled  there, 

A  type  of  peaceful  continuity 

Where  one  day  never  differs  from  another 

Save  by  the  seasons'  sequence  round  and  round, 

And  the  slow  process  of  the  Calendar. 

But  in  the  dawn  of  the  last  century 

It  was  the  scene  of  such  a  tragedy 

So  pitiful,  of  such  compelling  woe, 

As  cannot  easily  have  been  surpassed 

In  all  the  annals  of  this  cruel  world. 

When  Mary  Morgan  came  to  Radnorshire 

She  was  a  lovely  child  of  sweet  sixteen; 

Within  a  year  they  hanged  her  by  the  neck 

At  four  cross  roads  outside  the  little  town, 

And  buried  her  beyond  the  old  church  tower 

In  a  place  apart  in  ground  unconsecrate ; 

This  ignominy  done,  a  tall  black  slate 

They  set  up  at  her  feet  as  though  to  bar 

Her  pitiful  corpse  from  the  East  and  all  its  hopes, 

And  on  the  slate  they  wrote  this  epitaph :  — 

"To  Mary  Morgan's  memory,  who  young 
And  beautiful  and  gently  born 
Became  the  victim  both  of  sin  and  shame 

29 


And  underwent  an  ignominious  death 
For  the  murder  of  her  bastard  infant  child 
The  eleventh  of  April  eighteen  hundred  five ; 
Roused  to  a  sense  of  guilt  and  of  remorse 
By  the  eloquent  exertions  of  her  Judge, 
She  underwent  the  sentence  of  the  law 
With  true  repentance  and  a  fervent  hope 
Of  pardon  through  the  merits  of  our  Lord. 
This  stone  is  set  up  to  commemorate 
Not  merely  a  departed  penitent, 
But  to  remind  the  living  of  how  weak 
And  frail  is  human  nature  in  this  life 
"When  unsupported  by  religious  faith. ' ' 

Thus  Mary  Morgan  dreamt  her  childish  dream 
Of  love  she  thought  divine,  and  a  foretaste 
Of  the  deep  joys  of  Heaven,  and  awoke 
To  find  it  the  dark  roadway  to  perdition 
And  the  gate  of  death! 

• 

And  where  then  was  the  man 

That  brought  this  baby  mother  to  the  bar 

Of  human  condemnation  and  God's  wrath? 

That  for  his  pleasure  thus  betrayed  a  child, 

Abandoned  her  for  his  convenience, 

And  prompted  her  to  slay  the  evidence 

Of  what  she  thought  was  love  but  found  was  insult? 

Did  he  stand  near  her  at  that  awful  trial 

To  share,  as  far  as  was  allowed  by  law, 

Her  long  drawn  agony  and  punishment? 

30 


Or  was  he  at  his  home  prone  on  his  knees 
Bowed  down  with  self-abasement  and  remorse  ? 
No,  no,  not  there!  but  on  the  Grand  Inquest 
That  found  the  bill  for  murder  'gainst  the  girl 
The  father,  sat,  of  Mary  Morgan's  child! 

The  jurymen  were  marvellous  good  men! 

Never  a  one  would  risk  his  precious  soul 

To  save  poor  little  Mary  Morgan's  life, 

And  so  for  conscience  sake  they  turned  their  backs 

Upon  the  promptings  of  Christ's  charity. 

But  though  his  honest  name  has  long  been  lost 

There  was  at  least  one  gallant  gentleman 

Whose  manhood  bade  him  instantly  take  horse 

To  London  to  entreat  for  a  reprieve. 

He  got  it,  after  precious  hours  lost; 

But  thrice  a  hundred  miles  over  the  hills 

Is  a  wild  ride,  and  though  we  may  be  sure, 

As  through  the  night  he  galloped  'neath  the  stars, 

"What  man  and  beast  could  do  was  nobly  done :  — 

Alas !  for  Mary  Morgan !  love  and  death 

Were  the  same  to  her  an  hour  ere  he  reached 

The  awful  gibbet  at  the  four  cross  roads ! 

He  could  do  nothing  more  for  her  in  life 

But  sure  the  little  headstone  at  her  grave 

Was  placed  by  him  there  with  no  more  than  this :  — 

"To  Mary  Morgan's  piteous  memory 
Who  suffered  death  when  she  was  but  sixteen,  — 
Let  him  among  you  that  is  without  sin 
Cast  the  first  stone  at  her. ' ' 

31 


The  big  black  slate 

Set  at  her  feet  records  religion's  verdict; 
The  little  stone  set  at  her  head  proclaims 
The  judgment  of  the  Christ!  a  hundred  years 
Have  passed  away  since  the  poor  child  was  taken 
From  prison  to  her  judgment,  and  from  thence 
To  the  gibbet  at  the  four  cross  roads,  and  thence 
To  the  grave ;  there  underneath  the  grass  she  lies, 
Her  broken  heart  long  mingled  with  the  dust, 
And  if  her  soul  be  not  washed  white  as  snow 
There  is  no  mercy  dwells  in  the  sweet  Heavens ! 


32 


AFTER  THE  '45 

In  Italy  stood  Donald  Cameron 

A  wandering  exile  from  his  northern  home, 

Poor  in  his  pocket  and  forlorn  at  heart, 

And  from  the  lonely  shore  of  the  lagoon 

Beheld  upon  the  bosom  of  the  deep 

The  queen  of  cities,  Venice,  the  sea's  bride. 

There  is  a  magic  in  those  silent  ways 

And  beetling  palaces  and  arches  dim 

To  pour  an  anodyne  upon  the  sorest  soul. 

In  an  old  palace,  now  a  hostelry, 

A  room  he  found  which  held  an  harpsicord, 

And  there  forthwith  determined  to  remain. 

From  the  few  treasured  volumes  he  had  brought 

That  night  he  read  in  More's  Utopia 

That  lively  health  should  ever  be  esteemed 

The  greatest  of  all  blessings,  when  there  came 

From  near  at  hand  the  sound  of  painful  coughing. 

The  night  was  calm  and  still,  the  distant  cries 

Of  gondoliers  made  a  far  dreaming  song, 

And  the  sharp  note  of  a  child's  tearing  cough 

Fell  with  insistent  clearness  on  his  ear. 

He  read  on  of  the  foolishness  of  men 

"Who  worship  earthly  jewels'  borrowed  light 

When  all  the  while  the  stars  are  in  the  Heavens, 

And  once  again  the  painful  coughing  came 

Between  him  and  the  page,  till  he  arose 

And  paced  the  narrow  room  with  angry  strides  — 

Was  this  the  peace  and  rest  he  thought  to  find? 

33 


His  evil  fortunes  still  had  followed  him 

And  brought  him  where  a  child's  insistent  cough 

Would  not  allow  him  even  to  read  at  peace ; 

And  up  and  down  he  strode  impatiently 

Until  the  measure  of  his  tread  evoked 

The  memory  of  the  wild  songs  of  war 

That  echoed  through  his  far  off  native  hills; 

And  opening  the  silent  harpsicord 

He  poured  upon  the  startled  summer  night 

The  strains  of  the  wild  northern  battle  cries. 

A  gondolier  who  drifted  far  below 

And  listened  to  that  alien  call  to  arms 

Murmured,  "It  is  some  barbarous  foreigner 

Who  knows  not  that  in  Venice  music  sings 

To  Love  alone!"  and  as  he  passed  away 

The  haunting  music  of  that  fallen  cause 

Poured  from  the  window  on  the  still  night  air 

Until  the  tolling  from  a  belfry  near 

Proclaimed  the  passing  of  another  day. 

Night  after  night  the  coughing  came  again 
And  Donald  played  upon  the  harpsicord; 
Anger  was  in  his  heart,  giving  no  space 
For  sympathy  nor  for  dear  charity, 
Till  in  his  bitterness  he  went  his  way 
To  Chioggia  where  he  could  at  ease  forget 
The  sounds  that  came  from  childish  suffering. 

But  Chioggia  is  not  Venice,  and  in  his  haste 
He  left  behind  the  volume  he  most  loved, 

34 


And  very  soon  he  missed  the  harpsicord, 

And  ere  a  week  had  sped  he  called  himself 

A  fool  to  fly  from  Venice  for  a  cough ! 

The  sixth  day  found  him  sailing  slowly  back 

Along  the  Lido  with  a  balmy  air 

Watching  the  campanile  grow  and  grow 

Above  the  waters  through  the  sunny  haze. 

The  sun  was  setting  as  he  reached  his  room, 

Filling  the  chamber  with  its  rosy  light. 

Upon  the  table  lay  a  letter,  writ 

Unto  "the  master  of  the  harpsicord." 

The  writing  fair  was  in  a  woman's  hand. 

He  broke  the  wafer,  and  found  this  within  — 

"I  think  you  will  forgive  this  forwardness 

When  you  have  learnt  the  cause:  my  mother's  sire 

Was  Douglas  of  Dalkeith,  and  a  true  man, 

And  therefore  I  know  well  your  country's  speech, 

I  learnt  it  at  her  knee  before  she  died. 

Though  you  have  many  sorrows,  you  have  brought 

Comfort  to  me,  my  little  brother's  life 

Is  surely  fading,  fading  from  the  world; 

His  cough  will  kill  him  if  it  be  not  stayed, 

And  I  who  love  him  more  than  life  itself 

Must  see  him  struggle  through  long  hours  for  breath 

When  every  cough  is  breaking  my  own  heart, 

But,  Sir,  I  know  not  whether  in  him  yet 

There  lingers  still  the  blood  of  your  own  land, 

But  sure  it  is  that  he  is  calmed  and  soothed 

Whene'er  he  hears  the  plaintive  harmonies 

Of  that  far  country  and  its  cause  forlorn. 

35 


But  now  for  six  nights  we  have  heard  no  sound 
In  the  long  evenings  when  his  cough  is  worst 
To  bring  him  ease,  and  thankfulness  to  me  — 
And  I  had  thought  you  may  have  learnt  our  grief, 
And  that  your  kind  heart  may  have  said  to  you, 
That  music  might  disturb  your  little  neighbour; 
And  therefore  I  have  writ  this  letter  thus 
To  tell  you  that  he  loves  to  hear  you  play, 
And  that  he  thanks  you,  Sir,  a  thousand  times. 
All  unawares  you  have  been  blessing  us. 
Francesca  the  good  nurse  takes  this  to  you, 
Dolores  el  Grimani."    As  he  reached 
The  end  of  these  so  gracious  words  he  heard 
The  coughing,  coughing  of  the  little  boy 
And  felt  the  anguish  of  his  fight  for  breath. 
And  straight  there  came  a  welling  at  his  heart 
Of  pity  and  remorse  that  drew  a  sob 
Deep  from  his  being,  and  filled  his  eyes  with  tears. 
In  a  moment  he  was  at  the  harpsicord 
Pouring  his  soul  out  in  sweet  melody. 
The  golden  light  of  evening  passed  away 
And  o'er  the  city  a  grey  twilight  stole, 
And  Donald  played  till  he  could  see  no  more. 
He  rose  at  last  and  listened!  not  a  sound 
Came  from  the  little  boy,  then  on  his  knees 
He  fell  and  prayed. 

"With  the  first  morning  light 

He  took  his  pen  and  wrote :  —  "  Unto  the  fair 

Dolores  el  Grimani,  had  you  known 

36 


How  all  unworthy  yesterday  was  I 

To  have  so  sweet  a  letter  sent  to  me 

Never  had  it  been  written;  but  I  am  changed 

And  hate  my  former  self,  for  you  have  ta'en 

The  scales  from  off  my  eyes ;  may  the  dear  God 

Restore  your  little  brother !  for  his  sake 

I  would  I  were  a  master  of  the  art 

To  bring  to  earth  the  magnificat  of  Saints." 

The  letter  with  some  flowers  were  hardly  gone 

When  old  Francesca  brought  him  this  reply  — 

"Indeed,  indeed,  we  thank  you,  Sir,"  —  no  more! 

The  nurse  regarded  him  with  favouring  eye 

And  said  perhaps  the  noble  gentleman 

Would  like  to  know  that  early  the  next  day 

The  adorable  Dolores  and  the  boy 

Were  going  away  to  Naples,  for  the  warmth 

Was  greater  for  the  coming  winter  there. 

The  Count,  their  father,  would  arrive  tonight 

To  take  them  all  away  with  him  at  dawn. 

And  though  the  climate  might  be  fair,  she  feared 

That  Naples  had  no  noble  gentleman 

To  give  them  music  on  the  harpsicord; 

And  should  he  wish  for  once,  before  too  late, 

To  look  upon  Dolores  face  to  face, 

'Twere  well  that  he  should  watch  about  the  steps 

Of  the  old  palace  at  the  break  of  dawn 

When  the  gondola  would  take  them  all  away." 

A  good  reward  he  gave  her  for  her  pains, 

Although  his  heart  sank  at  the  news  she  brought. 

As  Donald  played  the  harpsicord  that  night 

37 


There  chanced  to  pass  below  the  gondolier 
Who  had  before  called  him  barbarian, 
And  as  he  paused  again  upon  his  dripping  oar 
And  listened  to  the  lovely  melodies 
Unto  himself  he  said  —  "I  judged  him  wrong. 
He  is  a  master  of  the  songs  of  love ! ' ' 
The  morning  rose  in  splendour,  Donald  lay 
Moored  in  his  gondola  close  to  the  steps 
"Where  he  could  see  the  doorway  and  the  stairs. 
The  gondola  of  the  Count  was  close  in  front; 
Long  minutes  passed  in  silence,  then  at  last, 
There  came  the  sounds  of  footsteps  on  the  stairs ; 
Donald  stepped  out  and  waited  motionless. 
First  came  the  porter  and  the  gondolier 
Bearing  a  litter  with  the  little  boy, 
His  father  walked  beside  him,  with  his  cloak 
Shielding  the  boy's  eyes  from  the  sudden  light. 
They  laid  him  gently  in  the  gondola; 
The  Count  beside  him  sat,  his  hand  in  his. 
Francesca  followed :  —  a  light  step  within,  — 
And,  through  the  portal  dim,  Dolores  came  — 
She  stood  upon  the  threshold  —  Donald's  heart 
Was  in  his  mouth,  she  turned  her  loveliness 
Towards  him,  and  for  one  long  breathless  pause 
She  looked  upon  him.     Then  Dolores  smiled, 
And,  taking  a  white  rose  from  out  her  breast, 
She  dropped  it  there  upon  the  marble  stairs ; 
Then  she  stepped  down  into  the  gondola. 
The  gondolier  pushed  off  while  Donald  knelt 
And  with  a  beating  heart  took  up  the  flower. 

38 


The  distance  grew  between  them  silently. 
He  saw  Dolores  leaning  sweetly  down 
To  kiss  her  little  brother,  then  at  last, 
A  bend  in  the  canal,  and  they  were  gone !  — 
There  Donald  stood,  transfixed  as  in  a  dream, 
The  white  rose  in  his  hand.    At  last  he  turned 
And  with  slow  steps  he  reached  his  lonely  room. 
He  closed  the  harpsicord  and  locked  it  up, 
And  going  to  the  window  dropped  the  key 
Into  the  silent  water  far  below. 


39 


io  book  is  DUE  on  the  last 
date  stamped  below. 


MAY  2  -1957 


10M-1 1-50<2555;  470          REMINGTON  RAND  INC.  20 


- THE  LIBRTOTir  " 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNni 
IXJS  ANGELES 


6005         New  Poems. 


MAYS -IQSt 


PR, 

6005 

G6778r. 


A    000  498  724    4 


